Objects at Rest
by goingdownsinging
Summary: The world of Godsfall has all eyes on the Worldstorm as the Godlings within make their way through the Union to the Godking. But potential never stays still for long, and there are other plots and plans brewing like storms on the horizon. This series of vignettes looks at four objects at rest in the world of Godsfall, their potential not yet realized, but certainly growing.


_Plunk!_

The coin thrown by the passing messenger slipped into the water with a small splash and quickly sank towards the bottom. Brina watched it from her position on a box next to a merchant's stand. Today it was a fruit cart. Yesterday it had been baskets, but today Gully must have woken up early to make sure he got his usual spot. The basket merchant had been trying to edge him out for weeks, but where he was young and determined Gully was wise and unflappable. So the two had played a subtle mind game, each attempting to read the other and figure out exactly how to secure the spot that sat just next to the intersection of canal-side street and canal-spanning bridge. Bri suspected Gully would win. She also hoped it. If the basket man won, she'd probably have to find somewhere else to sit, and it would mean no more kindly old fruit merchant taking pity on her come lunchtime and slipping her a few pieces of merchandise, free of charge. If Gully stayed, she could come back here day after day and continue her campaign of motionless hatred.

Brina hated a lot of things these days. She hated the passerby who threw coins into the canal. She hated them for a few reasons, not the least of which was the waste of money, money her mother could use to keep the family well-fed and clothed and happy, like they always had been. She hated them for the ritual too, that superstition that feeding the monster in the canal their money would bring them luck. She hated their foolishness. How quickly they forgot that the monster hadn't brought any luck at all – just unhappiness for her and countless other people. Brina hated them, she supposed, because they took for granted everything she'd always taken for granted – that she'd be happy, that her family had enough money to live on, that she had a real family at all, one that wasn't ruined by the monster in the canal. She hated them because they didn't understand how fast it all changed and awful it all was.

That was another reason she wanted Gully to win. The basket man, if he let her stay around, would try to talk to her. He'd want to know why she was there and what she was thinking about, and when he heard he'd be sad for her. Gully had never asked either of those questions, which was good because she didn't want to hate him either. He knew, at least, that sometimes company is the last thing misery would love. And so every day she could look at the canal from her perch and hate in peace.

For the first month since people had begun throwing coins, she'd watched all of them very closely. She'd tried to look at their faces or even their eyes if they were facing her direction. She wanted to see what it was that they all had in common. What made them all want to ask for luck from a murderer? However, after a while she began to see the same eyes and faces on different people. It never got easier to tell who wanted what and who had the best reason, the reason that could truly justify her father's death. She never found it, and after a while stopped looking. Now she was gazed out just over the edge of the canal, a vantage point with a different angle that allowed her to be quite familiar with boots. She could tell where the coin would hit, usually, and she could tell when the person would throw the coin was about to do it, even the ones that didn't stop. They all had a tell. It was useful, because knowing that someone was about to throw a coin meant she knew when to start hating them. Brina realized it was probably silly to hate total strangers, people who had nothing to do with her and only wanted what was best for them and their lives, but she really didn't care. They worshipped the monster with their coin the same way the Wallites worshipped the Wall with their constant upkeep and prayer.

Brina had felt conflicted about hating the Wallites. On the one hand, they had tried to kill the God Queen on her wedding day and their attack had led to the death of several guards. More families left with one parent to work instead of two. More children who wanted only to see their mothers and fathers again. On the other hand, the Wallites hated the companions of the God Queen. Brina also hated the companions that some whispered were magicians in a world that hadn't seen magic-makers in a long time. Ultimately, she decided to not care about the Wallites. Her hatred was wide, but didn't need to cover everyone.

It certainly covered those outsiders in the Queen's Court, however. It was they who had loosed the monster on the city. One of them had led it right through the streets and gotten her father killed as a result. The being of heartless stone had crushed her father under one giant fist. Brina swore the stain of his blood and viscera was still there on the pavement. She had avoided that street ever since.

Her father had been a guard, and as far as she knew a good one. He had never encountered anything more dangerous than a common thief or pickpocket, and he certainly hadn't trained to take down a golem the size of a small building. He had died without a second thought on the part of the golem or its true quarries. They had escaped free of harm and deposited the golem in the canal. No one knew where it was now, but people threw coins at the spot it was last seen, so here was where Brina sat.

Brina's father hadn't been a small man, but he was small next to the golem, and so he'd died. Brina knew she was small, much smaller than her father, but she'd never felt it quite so intensely before. The two that the golem had chased were small too, but in a different way. Not one that mattered – in the eyes of so many already, they were huge. They were untouchable. People like Brina and her father were not untouchable. They were small, and fragile, and unable to live in a world or terrifying magical constructs and beasts. That was not the world they'd been born into, the world they had lived their whole lives. But apparently it was the way of the world now.

People loved to talk about forgiveness, until it came their time to forgive. Brina was not ready to forgive. Not ready, not willing, not even considering it. Brina wanted to keep hating for as long as she could. If there was one thing she knew about hate, it was that it could get big. Bigger than the basket man. Bigger than the Queen's friends.

Bigger than the golem.

Brina knew she had to keep hating, and so she sat and waited. She was prepared to do it forever, until the golem returned and the Queen's friends showed their faces again. They would fight it for sure, she thought. It had tried to catch them and crush them like it had caught her father, and they couldn't allow that. So they would fight it. Would they win? Didn't matter. Would the golem crush them? Irrelevant. Brina's hatred would be bigger than both of them by that point.

Brina's hatred would swallow them all.

She just had to wait.

The golem in question was also waiting, and for similar reasons.

The object of its pursuit had travelled steadily across the sea for some time. The golem had no real name for the amount of time it had strode across the silt-covered bottom of the ocean. In fact, it had no real name for any amount of time. It could comprehend that the amount of time it had spent standing guard was much greater than that it had spent chasing its charge, its duty, its reason for existence- the same reason for existence that was now a great distance in front of and above it, and getting further every day. The same reason for existence that had been stolen almost cheekily from it after a great deal of time without incident.

If a creature of stone and magic could have emotions…

 _Livid._

There were times when having a stone body was immensely useful. Looking formidable, _being_ formidable, crushing things with its bare hands – the list continued. However, stone did not swim. It didn't need to breathe, of course, but even so swimming would be better than trudging along the bottom of the ocean. It came with a new sensation – not a physical one, not like the heat or cold or pressure, things that it had been created to feel to know when it was in danger. This was different, it was internal. It felt strange – another new concept. It felt – was there a term for it? Angry? Frustrated? Bored? And why did it feel them at all? Never mind it – there was a duty to fulfill. It had something to reclaim, something to capture and return to its rightful spot.

But it was always out of reach! Always!

It stayed that way. No closer, ever-farther, even, and the distance pulled at its automaton mind like a fish tugging on a line. It nagged, the pressure of catching up so great it was almost painful even to a creature that could not feel pain. It was a new experience. It was an awful experience. The golem wanted it to stop, and so increased its pace as best it could. It would catch the intruders who had stolen its charge, its duty. It would reclaim its purpose.

And so it continued. Walking, day and night (though in the depths of the ocean there was little difference) through water that became gradually warmer and full of life. Strange fish and reptiles swam around the golem, nipping curiously at its stony bulk and then darting away when realizing it was not food. The golem continued on, paying them no heed. It had a one-track mind in the most literal sense, even with its growing sense of frustration and uselessness. It had to recapture what it was meant to protect. And so it walked, and walked, and walked – and stopped.

The sense was gone.

It was gone. Gone! The magical draw, the directional pull of the object it was meant to defend was missing. It did not understand. How could this be? If it had been destroyed, the golem itself would have felt it. Its final protocol would have been engaged and it would be compelled to destroy everything around it until it itself was destroyed. But this was not the case. The destruction protocol lay dormant, the sense of needing to do _something_ was still there. The object was intact – the sense of where it lay was just gone, as if cut off. It did not understand. It could not comprehend. It was lost, and so it stopped.

And stood.

And waited.

If a golem could feel…

 _Lost._

The hot desert sun beat down on the dry sand, and Wodea soaked it up with pleasure. The cactus had seen many sunny days, and she loved every one of them. Each was different, and each was special. Sun was good – it fed him, it nourished her, it was the breath of life. Water was good too – it kept her strong, it kept him vibrant, it was life itself. Her arms stretched out to the skies and welcomed it into her form. His spines prickled at the thought of every drop of sun, every bit of rain. The water didn't come often, but when it did it came in thick sheets that supplied him for ages and ages. He could always feel it sinking deep into the baked earth of the desert, and she reached up with her roots to grab it and hold it tightly to his body.

His roots, long and dark and thick and wiry, like pipes that carried the precious water under the desert. Her root system was large, larger than most would suspect even for a plant of his size – and a majestic plant she was. She stood proudly in the desert's heart, and she towered over any other form that lived there. A dozen thick arms shot off of his body and from each of those came smaller arms, with buds that blossomed into beautiful flowers when the season was right. She was truly a sight to behold, so much so that she didn't mind even that she was the only one around that could really appreciate his own beauty. Wodea knew himself to be unique and exquisite, just as all life was – and for her this was no contradiction. He had always loved himself, and so when the opportunity arose to reform, he did so in a manner that appealed most to her – taking new life as a cactus, one of her favorite creations.

Cactuses were hardy, but beautiful. They could were resilient and resourceful enough to survive in an environment that few things could, and for this Wodea valued them immensely. Few, if any, of the other gods could appreciate the creations of the god of plants, but she had always seen the value inherent of what she created, and hadn't he been proven right in the long run? His creations fed the whole world, were used as supplement and protection for every living thing in the world. Nothing lived without his approval. In a way, she reasoned, didn't that make him the god of life itself?

Didn't that make her the god of death?

Wodea supposed it did. She knew much about death, having died once herself. This was another reason she had chosen the cactus when she had reformed. True, it was a little more restrictive than what she assumed the other gods would take if they got their chance, but he was fine with it. A cactus could survive anything. He did not fear the heat – he welcomed it. It was a boon to her but was fatal to others who might try to reach her. She did not mind the storms of sand or wind – she stood tall against them. The cactus form was strong and rigid. Wind would only keep her safe from intruders, and sand provided an easy path for his roots to take. Her spines made him deadly, his flowers made her beautiful. Nothing would approach a cactus, but instead marvel from afar. This was an ideal state.

And it was currently being interrupted. The distance between her and the nearest living thing was shortening. It was not doing so rapidly by any means, but it was still doing so. She was unused to this. Animals had long since learned to stay away. Nibble not on his buds, burrow not between her roots. Find your homes and your food elsewhere. Other plants you could eat and live in. This one you could not. So what now was this stranger?

The stranger crawled, not the way an animal crawled – low to the ground to avoid detection, or because of naturally short limbs – but the way something might crawl if it was dying. The way some of the other creations of the gods crawled, when they were hurt or failed in strength. This was one of those creations. Wodea sat and listened through her roots for its approach. As slowly as it was moving, the sun was well past its highest point by the time the creature was near.

It stopped. Surveyed him, looked at the massive being in front of itself, a plant so large it defied reason. Here, in a place where nothing should survive, it seemed, life itself had flourished. This was what Wodea knew it must see. Look upon me, he thought, and know that I am god of life and death.

Alas, the figure saw only the god of life. Too bad for it.

Scrambling to its knees, the figure searched around in the sand until it found what it was looking for: a sharp-edged stone about the size of a fist. Grinning savagely, the figure walked on its knees to Wodea and began looking at him more closely. Quickly, it found its desire and placed a hand on a small arm near the base of the god-cactus, disregarding the spines that pierced its flesh. If Wodea could have recoiled, he would have. What did this thing think to do? It had no teeth to cut through a cactus, and even if it had its face was too large to fit between the spines. That arm was part of her plan. It would grow like the others to take its place in her perfect form.

The creature raised the stone and brought it down on the arm again and again and again, the hard edge ripping through her flesh and severing the thick tendrils of plant matter attaching it to his body. Wodea screamed silently. This was pain beyond which she had never felt. Compared to this, he thought, the biting of desert rats and the peck of birds had been nothing. No being had ever tried to sever one of his limbs.

The creature didn't seem to notice her shock, or care about his pain. It tore greedily at the arm, ripping it away and quickly upending it over its face, drenching itself in the watery blood of the cactus. It lapped desperately at the juice, and when the stream was ended it took the rock to the inside of the severed arm, scraping out the innards and stuffing them in its mouth. It chewed thickly and slowly, and Wodea watched in shock and horror. When it was done, it stood on its feet for the first time since its arrival and slowly teetered off into the distance. Its meal was done. It had met the god of life in the middle of the desert.

It had ignored the god of death.

Wodea wanted to smite it right away, but forced herself to wait. He wanted it as far away as possible, to never have to sense the dreadful thing that had so cruelly severed his arm and eaten it in front of her. So she waited, not like a cat waits for a mouse to leave its hole so that it may catch it, but like a mousetrap waits for a mouse to trigger it. The end result was not a chase. The end result was a dull inevitability.

The sun was setting as the figure reached the boundary of the god's power in this form. It had slowed since its initial pace after the meal, and it stopped momentarily to put a hand over its eyes, shielding them from the setting sun. Wodea felt the moment, and took it.

A root, twisted to a savage point by the god's will, shot from the ground like a viper. The point entered the exposed armpit of the figure, burrowing into its chest, ripping a whole through lung and heart and lung and other armpit and extending through to the other side. The figure froze in what Wodea could only assume was excruciating pain. The tip of his root, already drenched in blood, reached out to the mouth of the figure. The lips trembled meekly. Like a swimmer drowning in an endless sea, the figure gasped for breath but could find none. Their lungs were ruined beyond any hope of survival, and a mixture of blood and saliva poured from their jaw in a steady stream. More roots appeared from the sandy ground to gently lower the figure to its knees and absorb the stream of life exiting its body. Wodea drank deep, and felt whole again. With this nourishment, she could make two new arms to replace the one she had lost.

The figures eyes stared at the sunset until they couldn't comprehend it anymore. The light slipped just past the horizon, and with it went the light from their eyes. The roots retreated and the body collapsed, a dark stain spreading slowly onto the sand beneath it. The roots burrowed into this pool and sated their thirst in it.

Wodea was the god of plants, but he could also be the god of life. Wodea was the god of plants, but she could also be the god of death. This was a truth only Wodea had ever known – until now.

Arax Kabadian climbed the smooth stone steps of the watchtower at the edge of the town and not for the first time that day wondered why she was here. Byzanar was barely even a city – an overgrown town not worth a name on a map, a resting stop between Mardin and Hakan that had grown ever-so-slightly plump on the trade of those moving between the larger cities. Byzanar had no significant strategic value, no hidden nest of traitors or deep dark secrets. It was an entirely ordinary town, almost sleepy in comparison to others like it in Kadar. In fact, Arax suspected that the citizens' approach to the tenets of rigorous asceticism, which here took a more relaxed form, was in part due to the proximity to Ryzan and trade from the Republic of Wessel. The people were almost soft by Kadarian standards. Ryzan or Wessel needed no spies to corrupt this place. Coin had seen to that.

The only reason she could think of for being here was here current assignment – but that couldn't be it. She'd been to some unusual places, even as far as Ani for her mission, but Byzanar would be the last place she'd expect to find anything. And anyway, she'd been all but forced off her assignment to come here. Not that she was complaining. When the Grand Praetor of Kadarian Intelligence himself asked you to meet him, you dropped everything and went to meet him – even if he arranged for a meeting in the White Waste itself. Aleksandr Markhalm was not a man to keep waiting or debate with. He had run Kadarian Intelligence for as long as she had been an agent, and he managed to do so almost always from a distance. An influential man in many circles, he constantly had business elsewhere. If there was one thing that was clear, it was that the man knew how and when to delegate effectively. Perhaps he had an even more important project he wanted her assigned to.

Even more important than infiltrating Ani? Than hunting those – living blasphemies?

Whatever it was, she would soon find out. The stairs came to an end in front of a heavy wooden door and small landing. She approached the door and knocked calmly but rapidly.

"Enter," came the voice from inside. She frowned. She'd never heard the Grand Praetor before, but she'd been expecting a voice that was a little louder, more forceful. Something befitting his station and reputation. Clearing her thoughts and expression, lest her doubts show on her face and cause offense, she did as he asked and entered the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Standing by a small window was a man whose dark purple cloak and silver clasp identified him as the Grand Praetor.

He looked precisely as he sounded. A small man, no more than five foot eight, with a small frame and a tightly trimmed, slightly greying beard. Except for the cloak and clasp, which clearly only existed to denote his station, he was dressed humbly, in greys and browns. He wore no rings and had a shortsword at his waist in a plain black scabbard. Arax looked around the room. There was no one else there – no servants, no other agents, no guards. This was truly a private meeting.

Arax quickly took the measure of the Grand Praetor, who was still looking through the window out towards the sea. A small breeze played with the edge of his cloak, and it gave the impression of a genteel painting. In spite of this and his humble appearance, Arax got the distinct idea that this man was far more dangerous than he seemed. He had no guards for a meeting with an agent who was a renowned fighter and had just returned from a hostile nation. She could hypothetically have easily been turned in Ani, though she herself knew that she would die before betraying Kadar. This meant one of two things: either he had no fear that she was a traitor and potential assassin, which would be foolish considering his station, or he had no fear of her even if she was one. She had no doubt that he was quite proficient with his shortsword. But it wasn't just that. There was something in his eyes that stood out even in profile.

Arax had seen a shark only once before, on the trip over to Ani. The experience had been uniquely disquieting. She'd been standing on the deck of the ship and would have missed the creature if a nearby sailor hadn't pointed it out to her. The water was so peaceful and the shark disguised itself so well that anyone who wasn't paying very close attention would never guess the danger that was so close to them. The shark swam lazily alongside them, its fin breaking the water every so often as a gentle reminder that it was still there. It seemed totally at ease, and when it finally broke away from their path she caught a glimpse of a cold, dead eye and a listless mouth beneath it.

The Grand Praetor reminded her of that day. His exterior – the clothes, the hair, even his very body – were all a comforting disguise, an innocent smokescreen for what lay beneath. The Grand Praetor was a shark in truth. The eyes matched perfectly, and Arax suppressed an involuntary shudder when he turned to face her and she looked deep into those eyes. He studied her, and she took the opportunity to speak first, giving a salute that allowed her to avoid those eyes.

"Agent Arax Kabadian, Grand Praetor. May I just say it's an honor to meet you. I'm ready for whatever assignment you have for me, sir."

He waved her salute away with a casual hand. "At ease, agent. Relax. I'm sure you're nervous – it isn't every day that you meet your commanding officer. Trust me, I remember how it feels."

In spite of herself, Arax did try to relax. Whatever he wanted to tell her, it would be better to be open and receptive. As anxious as she was to know what was going on, she mustn't let it get in the way. The Grand Praetor spoke again.

"I understand you've come from Ani." She nodded. "I'm sorry to take you off of your assignment. By all accounts, you were doing very well. It was you yourself who made the final identification on the target who now sits on the throne of Ani, wasn't it?" She nodded again. "Well done. Your service has been most valuable – but I'm afraid there's something even bigger that Kadar needs you for."

At this, she stirred. Bigger than investigating possible – no, by this point all but confirmed – divine activity?

He noted her look of surprise and smiled thinly. "Yes, I know. It seems impossible. What could be more important than tracking down godlings?" He smiled slightly wider, revealing a few teeth in a way that was almost menacing. "What about hunting them?" He walked away from the window and towards a seemingly blank section of wall. He quickly pushed on three different bricks in the wall and a portion of it slid away, revealing a very cramped second stairway that spiraled straight down into the darkness. He motioned towards it. "Come with me and I'll show you what I mean."

She followed him into the darkness, stooping to make it through the truly tiny passageway. He talked as he walked, quizzing her on the recent history of Byzanar.

"What is the one thing that makes this town at all noticeable on an empire-wide scale, agent?"

"The Tarlis River redirection project, sir."

"Correct. Tell me everything you know about it."

"Twenty years ago it was decided that the town of Byzanar needed more direct access to the Tarlis for water. A proposal was made to redirect a section of the river to the city, and the project was undertaken that same year by a large workforce of indented criminals. The project suffered from outbreaks of disease and structural failure but was never abandoned and continues to this day. Engineers report that the redirection should be complete in less than a year, before the first century without the gods comes to a close. The redirection should have been finished well before then but the aforementioned setbacks were extremely hazardous to the workforce, and many die every year on the project. Indeed, the Tarlis River project requires more unskilled laborers than any other public work the Empire devotes its criminal population to – an inordinately high cost for such a project, sir. Personally, I blame the overseers. They're all local, as I recall, and I have reason to question their thoroughness in complying with Imperial standards of adequacy." She sniffed dismissively.

The Grand Praetor chuckled, surprising her. They're reached the bottom of the steps and another blank section of wall. This one the Grand Praetor simply pushed out of the way, as light as if it were a sliding pane of wood. "Don't be too hard on the locals, agent. Let me show you the real reason for the delays." He led her through the doorway.

Before her stretched a massive underground cavern, an immense quarry carved into what could only be the underside of the city itself. All around her were the sounds of hammers and chisels, pickaxes and wheelbarrows, creaking cranes and grinding gears mining, transporting, and processing iron ore. Looking out over it all, she realized that there must be hundreds of workers. Who were they? How could they possibly be doing this much work undocumented by any Imperial construction project overseer? She'd heard of no other projects of this size in Byzanar – and then it hit her.

"The Tarlis River project – the casualties. They didn't die –"

"They were recruited," said the Grand Praetor. "For this. Now, understand what you are about to learn of is top secret – even more so than your former assignment. We've worked hard to keep it that way, and we'll work even harder. Unfortunately for them, all of the workers here will be terminated immediately after their work is done. In fact, we've started on some of the crews already. Not that it really matters- after all, they're technically already dead. No, it isn't them I'm worried about. Understand, of course, that I don't mean to cast aspersions on the conviction of your loyalty or your ability to keep secrets. On the contrary, I've read through every dossier for each potential agent we had considered for this project – that actually lead me to some very interesting discoveries, and after a few loose ends were tied up the Empire is the better for all the time it took – and you were by far the best candidate. However, I'm prepared to erase this entire town from the map if this project requires it to stay safe. We aren't ready to reveal it yet. There are steps yet to take, things yet to complete. A whole host of dwarven animators, for one. They'll be the tricky ones to deal with. I'm positive we'll have to find an excuse to send them on a boat back and arrange for a shipwreck. But enough of that. Let me show you why we came here, exactly. While we walk, tell me everything you know about golems."

She cleared her face of its surprised expression and followed him at the shoulder. For a rather short man, he kept up a very brisk pace. "Golems are iron constructs given magical animus by dwarves or other spellcasters. The Empire despises magic, as all good people should, but uses the golems as tools against other nations that have not the sense to abandon the dead gods and their ways. Currently, we have thirty-six 10-foot golems in the field. Sixteen of them are worker golems and fifteen are military golems. The other seven are used for gladiatorial combat and training for the King-Killer squads." Even after so many years knowing that the commonly held belief that the gladiators battled golems to prepare for the Godking was indeed true, it still felt strange to say it aloud. "We have additional stores of golems held in secret reserve: fifty more ten-foot golems and a dozen special twenty-foot golems. These are to be kept secret from our enemies so that they do not know the full extent of our strength. Sir."

He nodded. "Excellent. As I'm sure you have guessed, we are harvesting iron here for a similar purpose – to increase those stores and bolster that strength."

She frowned. "You're producing golems?" Why? That was what they contracted dwarves to do.

"Not quite," came his silken reply. He stopped. They'd entered a large room that stood more than a hundred feet tall and was shaped roughly like a bell. In the center of the room was another, smaller room that seemed an exact copy of the larger, only in miniature. Well, not exactly miniature – the building was about seventy feet tall and fifty feet in diameter, with a low door carved into it and two windows placed above it at diagonals. The Grand Praetor continued.

"There's more to the mine and storage rooms, but we needn't concern ourselves with them right now. This is what we are here to see. Incidentally, the Tarlis River project wasn't a total ruse – we really did need immediate access to its waters after discovering this massive vein of iron, and we needed it channeled to us discreetly. As it happens, ineptitude was the perfect cover. Regardless, here is what I wanted to show you – your new project." He gestured with his hand towards the small building, clearly watching her to see her reaction. She didn't know what to do. What was she supposed to be seeing?

He smiled patiently. "Perhaps I should explain a little more. Golems have always been a source of cultural frustration for our people. We rely on them for so much, and yet we despise what they are at their very core – magical beings. Dumb metal brought to dumb life – a blow to all we hold dear, yet an invaluable resource nonetheless."

"It was almost 30 years ago when I was made the Grand Praetor of Kadarian Intelligence. It's a position few even know exist, but I rose through the ranks because my superiors saw in me not only loyalty, but cleverness. Imagination, which in the hands of all but the most devout is a dangerous flame that must be stomped out. I see the same in you, Agent Kabadian. It, combined with your zeal and passion for chasing the godlings, was why I chose you for this assignment. This imagination served me well shortly into my service as Grand Praetor. I was watching a gladiatorial match – back in the days we'd tried to disguise their true purpose so desperately – and to make things interesting and more innocuous, the arena was making use of two golems and two teams of three fighters at once. It didn't end very well – the teams mostly just got in each other's way. But I remember watching and seeing one golem bowling through its opponents as it attacked the other fighters. As it happened, the other golem was circling its own opponents and backed right into the charging one. The two went sprawling, and in that moment something that hadn't happened the entire match occurred – the fighters had the upper hand. That moment stuck with me, and it gave me this idea."

"We've been training fighters to slay the Godking and now, the other godlings. The golem is the nearest we can get to the actual thing. But seeing those two titans knock each other down made me think: what if we've been going at this from the wrong direction? Our focus has been on using our hated tools to fight our human enemies and our human fighters to slay our hated enemies. We could fix that – we just needed something to tip the scales."

Her eyes widened with sudden understanding. He smiled again, tight-lipped but eager, a shark waiting for the fish to finally swim close enough. "Do you see now?"

She did. Of course she did. How could she have been so blind before? The room, the windows and door not windows and a door at all. It was even made of iron on closer inspection, and the shape – oh! No, it wasn't a room at all.

It was a head.

A golem's head, that stood fifty feet across and seventy feet tall.

The world spun for a minute. She fumbled for her tongue like it was a wet bar of soap, then –

"The rest of it – is it – is it…"

"Ready?" said the Grand Praetor. His teeth finally peeked out from behind those lips. "Yes. It waits only for the animus spell that will awaken it. I have chosen you to lead it with a special crew to accompany and assist you. They are the best we have to offer. When the time comes, you will take this weapon into the field and tear down the very walls of Ani itself. With this, you shall destroy the Godking's city in his absence and hunt down the rest of the godlings."

She nodded. When your prey went to ground, leave no ground for it to go to.

This weapon would change the world. A golem large enough to crush a warship in its fist – it was unbelievable. But it was real, and it was hers to command. For the first time that day, she smiled. Somewhere above her, the rest of the world slumbered. But not for long.

Not for long.


End file.
